'What do you call it?'
'The Lines of Torres Vedras.'
Three lines barred the Lisbon peninsula, three giant fortifications made with the hills themselves, fortifications that dwarfed the granite-works at Almeida. The first line, on which they rode, was twenty-six miles long, stretching from the Atlantic to the Tagus, and there were two others behind it. The hills had been steepened, crowned with gun batteries, and the lowland flooded. Behind the hillcrests sunken roads meant that the twenty-five thousand garrison troops could move unseen by the French, and the deep valleys, where they could not be filled, were blocked with thorn-trees, thousands of them, so that from the air it must have looked as if a giant's child had shaped the landscape the way a boy played with a few square inches of wet soil by a stream.
Sharpe stared eastwards, at the unending line, and he found it hard to believe. So much work, so many escarpments made by hand, crowned with hundreds of guns cased in stone forts, their embrasures looking to the north, to the plain where Massena would be checked.
Hogan rode alongside him. 'We can't stop him, Richard, not till he gets here. And here he stays.'
'And we're back there.' Sharpe pointed towards Lisbon, thirty miles to the south.
Hogan nodded. 'It's simple. He'll never break the lines, never; they're too strong. And he can't go round; the Navy's there. So here he stops, and the rains start, and in a couple of months he'll be starving and we come out again to reconquer Portugal.'
'And on into Spain?' Sharpe asked.
'On into Spain.' Hogan sighed, waved again at the huge scar of the unbelievable fortress. 'And we ran out of money. We had to get money.'
'And you got it.'
Hogan bowed to him. 'Thank you. Tell me about the girl?'
Sharpe told him as they rode towards Lisbon, crossing the second and third lines that would never be used. He remembered the parting after they had left the river fortress, unchallenged, and the Light Company, clumsily mounted on the Spanish horses, had bounced after Lossow's Germans. One French patrol had come near them, but the Germans had wheeled to meet it, their sabres drawn in one hissing movement, and the French had sheered away. They had stopped beside the Coa and Sharpe had handed Teresa the one thousand gold coins he had promised.
She had smiled at him. 'This will be enough.'
'Enough?'
'For our needs. We go on fighting.'
The wind had brought the stench of burning and death into the hills and Sharpe had looked at her, at the dark, hawklike beauty.
'You can stay with us."
She had smiled. 'No. But you can come back. One day.'
He had nodded at the rifle slung on her shoulder. 'Give it to Ramon. I promised.'
She looked surprised. 'It's mine!'
'No.' He had unslung his own rifle, checked the butt-plate, that all the cleaning equipment was there, and handed it across with his ammunition pouch. 'This is yours. With my love. I'll get another one.'
She had smiled, shaken her head. 'I'm sorry.'
'So am I. We'll meet again.'
'I know.' She turned her horse and waved.
'Kill a lot of French!' he shouted.
'All there are!'
And she was gone, galloping with her father and his men, her men, up to the secret paths that would lead them home, to the war of the knife and ambush, and he missed her, missed her.
He smiled at Hogan. 'You heard about Hardy?'
'Sad. He has a brother. Did you know?'
'No.'
Hogan nodded. 'A Naval Lieutenant. Giles Hardy, and just like his brother. Mad as a coot.'
'And Josefina?'
Hogan smiled, sniffed his snuff, and Sharpe waited for the sneeze. Hogan wiped away the tears. 'She's here. You want to see her?'
'Yes.'
Hogan laughed. 'She's rather celebrated now." He did not explain.
They rode in the lengthening shadows down the paved highway into Lisbon. It was crowded with carts, carrying building stone, and with the labourers who were making one of the great wonders of the military world, a fortress covering five hundred square miles that would stop the French in the year of 1810 and would never be used again. Sharpe admired Wellington for a clever man, because no one, utterly no one outside Lisbon, seemed to know the lines existed, and the French, their tails up, would come hallooing down the southern road. And stop.
The South Essex, shorn of its Light Company, was up north and soon, Sharpe knew, they must march to join it. One battle more, Hogan had said, with any luck and a fair wind, and then the army would march south to the safety of its Lines, and Colonel Lawford had greeted him with open arms and waved a despatch at Sharpe.
'Reinforcements, Richard! They're on their way! You can bring them up from Lisbon! Officers, Sergeants, two hundred and seventy men! Good news!'
The ships had still not come, beating down from Plymouth on the journey that could take seven days or seven weeks, and Sharpe was content to wait. He slid, with relief, off the horse and gave Hogan the reins.
'I'll see you tomorrow?'
The Major nodded, scribbled on a piece of paper. 'That's her address.'
Sharpe smiled his thanks, turned, but Hogan called after him.
'Richard!'
'Sir?'
'We needed that gold. Well done.'
Sixteen thousand coins, two hundred and fifty stolen by El Catolico, a thousand to Teresa, fourteen thousand to the General, and the rest was being spent by the Light Company and the Germans as if money were issued with the rations. Sharpe had ordered them to get drunk, to find their women, and if any provost asked where the money came from they were referred to Sharpe, and somehow they did not want to argue with the tall, scarred Rifleman who simply told them it was stolen. There was even money in Sharpe's name in London, held by the agents, Messrs Hopkinson and Son of St Alban's Street, Knowles's agents, and Sharpe wondered, as he walked towards the address Hogan had given him, just what a four per cent stock was. The Lisbon office had laughed politely when he told them it was stolen. He had not given them all the coins.
The house looked rich, and he imagined Hardy using the big front door that was answered by Agostino, Josefina's servant, who now wore a fancy powdered wig and a coat that was all buttons and lace.
'Sir?'
Sharpe pushed him out of the way, strode into a marble hall with palms, rugs, and latticed screens. He thought of Teresa, pushed the thought away because he wanted her, and thought how she would have despised the scent that filled the hallway.
He went into a huge room that opened through archways on to a terrace high above the Tagus. Orange trees framed the view, their scent mingling with the smell of perfume.
'Josefina!'
'Richard!'
She was in an archway, the evening light round her body so he could not see her face. 'What are you doing?'
'Visiting you.'
She came forward, plumper than he remembered, and smiled at him. She touched his face with a finger, looked his uniform up and down, and made a face of disapproval.
'You can't stay.'
'Why not.'
She gestured outside. 'He was first."
He looked at her, remembering her differently, and he would have left if Patrick Harper had not already claimed the dark-haired maid at the American Hotel. Instead, he walked on to the terrace where a languid cavalry Lieutenant sat with a glass of wine.
The Lieutenant looked up. 'Sir.'
'How much did you pay?'
'Richard!' She was behind him, pulling at him. Sharpe laughed.
'Lieutenant?'
'Damn you, sir!' The Lieutenant stood up, the wine quivering in the glass.
'How much did you pay?'
'Damn your eyes, sir! I'll call you out!'
Josefina was laughing now, enjoying herself. Sharpe smiled. 'You can. The name's Sharpe. In the meantime, get out!'
'Sharpe?' The Lieutenant's expression had fallen.
'Out.'
'But, sir…'
>
Sharpe drew the sword, the great steel sword. 'Out!'
'Madame!' The Lieutenant bowed to Josefina, put down his wine, glanced once at Sharpe, and was gone. She hit him, lightly.
'You shouldn't have done that.'
'Why not?' He pushed the sword back into the scabbard.
She pouted. 'He was rich and generous.'
He laughed, opened his new ammunition pouch, the black leather still stiff, and threw the thick gold coins on to the patterned tiles.
'Richard! What is it?'
'Gold, you fool.' The convoy could take another month for all he cared. He tossed more coins, thick as butter. 'Josefina's gold, your gold, our gold, my gold.' He laughed again, pulled her towards him. 'Sharpe's gold.'
HISTORICAL NOTE
Almeida's garrison surrendered after the explosion of August 27th, 1810. The event was much as described in Sharpe's Gold. The magazine in the cathedral blew up and destroyed, beside the cathedral itself, the castle, five hundred houses, and part of the fortifications. It was estimated that more than five hundred of the garrison died. Brigadier Cox wanted to continue the defence but bowed to the inevitable and surrendered the next day.
It must have been one of the biggest explosions of the pre-nuclear world. (Certainly not the biggest. A year before, in 1809, Sir John Moore deliberately exploded four thousand barrels of powder to keep them from falling into French hands at Corunna.) A year later the French added to the destruction. They, in turn, were besieged in Almeida and abandoned its defence after blowing up part of the walls; their garrison of fourteen hundred men successfully escaped through the much larger British besieging force. Despite its misfortunes the town's defences are still impressive. The main road no longer passes through Almeida; instead it runs a few miles to the south, but the town is just half an hour's drive from the border post at Vilar Formoso. The awesome defences are repaired and intact, surrounding what is now a shrunken village, and on the top of the hill it is easy to see where the explosion occurred. Nothing was rebuilt. A graveyard marks the site of the cathedral; the castle moat is a square, stone-faced ditch; granite blocks still litter the area where they fell, and wild flowers grow where once there were houses and streets.
No one, conveniently for a writer of fiction, knows the precise cause of the catastrophe, but the accepted version, pieced together from the stories of survivors, is that a leaking keg of gunpowder was rolled from the cathedral and an exploding French shell ignited the accidental powder train, which fired back to musket ammunition stored by the main door. This, in turn, flashed down to the main magazine, and so the greatest obstacle between Massena and his invasion of Portugal was gone. One Portuguese soldier, very close to the cathedral, saved his life by diving into a bread oven, and now his presence of mind has been borrowed by Richard Sharpe. The most unlikely stories often turn out to be the truth.
The Lines of Torres Vedras existed and truly were one of the great military achievements of all time. They can still be seen, decrepit for the most part, grassed over, but with a little imagination Massena's shock can be realized. He had pursued the British army from the border to within a day's march of Lisbon, had survived Wellington's crushing victory at Busaco on the way, but surely, so close to Portugal's capital, he must have thought his job done. Then he saw the lines. They were the furthest point of retreat for the British in the Peninsula; they were never to be used again, and four years later Wellington's superb army marched over the Pyrenees into France itself.
Sharpe’s Gold is, sadly, unfair to the Spanish. Some Partisans were as self-seeking as El Catolico, but the large majority were brave men who tied up more French troops than did Wellington's army. The Richard Sharpe books are the chronicles of British soldiers and, with that perspective, the men who fought the 'little war' have suffered an unfair distortion. But at least, by the autumn of 1810, the British army is safe behind its gigantic Lines and the stage is set for the next four years: the advance into Spain, the victories, and the ultimate conquest of France itself.
Richard Sharpe and Patrick Harper will march again.
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Document creation date: 2007-01-24
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Sharpe's Gold rs-9 Page 25
